Free Kiss of Evil by Richard Montanari

Why does this guy bug the shit out of him? But he knows the answer to that, a basic premise that has driven him for years. The belief—the conviction—that you do not have to destroy someone’s family to exact justice.
    Jeremiah Cross had all but destroyed Michael Ryan’s family.
    Paris tries to return to the information on Santeria but finds his mind drifting to a hill in Russell Township, to the image of a burning automobile carcass lighting the night sky. His cop-mind now adds a small yellow car to the scene—lights off, engine humming, two unseen eyes behind a dark windshield, watching the manic ballet of red and orange flames, the thick black smoke curling skyward.
    Before he can let the scene take hold of his mood, Paris sees Mercedes Cruz loping toward the back of the restaurant, smiling broadly, dressed, it appears, for arctic exploration.
    “Good afternoon , Detective Paris,” she says brightly, removing her huge parka, ski vest, wool cardigan, scarf, gloves, muffler, earmuffs, and hat. Today, Paris notices, the barrette keeping her sweat-dampened hair to the side is a red reindeer. Her dress is blue denim, shapeless. Her glasses are completely fogged over.
    “Good afternoon,” Paris says. He motions to the waitress.
    Mercedes wipes her glasses with a napkin, looks at some of the material on the table. “Santeria, eh?” she asks, rolling the r perfectly. She slips into the booth, orders coffee, sunny-side-up eggs and cinnamon toast. She takes out her spiral notebook and pen. “What is your interest in Santeria?”
    “Off the record?”
    “Off the record,” Mercedes repeats, hand over heart. She drops her pen into her bag.
    Paris studies her earnest face for a few moments. He couldn’t give her too many details of the investigation into Willis Walker’s murder but decides he will trust her about the record. “It may be involved in a homicide I’m working on.”
    “I see.”
    “Are you a . . . um . . .”
    “Am I a follower?”
    “Okay. Are you?” Paris asks.
    Mercedes laughs. “No, far from it. I’m a Catholic girl, detective. Twelve years of nuns at St. Augustine’s, four more with the Jesuits at Marquette. Skirts an inch from the floor when kneeling, confession every Saturday, communion every Sunday.”
    Paris smiles with the recollection of his own youth and the dreaded confessional. Father O’Hern and his booming baritone, bellowing Paris’s sins for half the church to hear. “Catholic Youth Organization, too?”
    “ Oh yeah. I was the talent coordinator for CYO dances for three years. Got the Raspberries once.”
    “Impressive.”
    Mercedes’s food arrives. She begins a ritual of making two half-sandwiches of the cinnamon toast and eggs—including a carefully placed dollop of ketchup on each slice—then meticulously stacking them on top of each other. A fried-egg-ketchup-and-cinnamon club sandwich, Paris thinks. That’s a new one. She tucks into the drippy yellow-and-red concoction like a long-haul trucker after a three-day speed run.
    “Anyway,” Mercedes continues, wiping her lips, “with that résumé, I guess I’m about as far from a santero as a gal can be, eh?”
    A santero , Paris had learned no more than a few minutes earlier, is a type of Santerian priest. “I’d say so.”
    “But I do know that there is a popular botanica on Fulton Road,” Mercedes says. “Right near St. Rocco’s.”
    “A botanica?”
    “A botanica is a place to buy charms, herbs, potions. Most of the items are for followers of Santeria, but sometimes I think they get—how shall I say—more diverse requests for materials.”
    “Such as?”
    “I’m not really sure. Like I said, I still carry a St. Christopher medal, okay? That’s how Catholic I am. I have a few friends in the old neighborhood who dabble in Santeria. What I’ve told you is about all I know about it.”
    “Have you ever heard of Palo Mayombe?”
    “No. Sorry.”
    Paris thinks for a moment. “So, if somebody was